


The Seven Percent Problem

by Jimlockian



Series: Prompts [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, NSFW, Recreational Drug Use, Smut, teen!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-23
Updated: 2013-06-23
Packaged: 2017-12-15 21:04:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/854035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jimlockian/pseuds/Jimlockian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drug!lock Sheriarty/Jimlock...  Those evil predatorial eyes swivel to him, and suddenly Sherlock is the one between the cross hairs. “Hold!” Cries the suited lad in a commandeering bark. It strikes Sherlock as odd, such an antiquated word from someone his age, and that is indeed why he stops.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Seven Percent Problem

**Author's Note:**

> This began as a two prompt combo, but it got huge! I've made it into its own distinct story and may go back to this AU, someday.
> 
> Drug!lock prompt: R and Lisagemeni
> 
> I had gotten TWO Drug!lock prompts within days of each other, so I combined them into this super longer monster using elements from each..  
> R - I wanted to veer away from non-cons so theirs is consensual lovin' this time (may be overloading on that after so much with A Duty of Loyalty!). Hope you like!  
> Lisa - Would not have included the final scene if not for your prompt. The universe's timing is off for you, but hopefully this helps your craving! Plus I have an upcoming post RBF Jimlock fic (Our Final Solution) that is perfect for such a scene too, which will include a major drug element in there as well. This is not the end of Drug!lock! 
> 
> Credit to Doyle, Moffat, & Gatiss, no copyright infringement intended. Just having fun!

When one is young and desiring to learn a trade he starts small. Perhaps as an apprentice, maybe through some training or education, or even by taking on a lesser yet similar job for experience. In the case of young James Moriarty an apprenticeship is nearly an impossible cause in his line of business, the idea of training for the criminal field is laughable, so the obvious answer is the only one left – a simpler job.

Oh, are drugs not so simple? For the teenage Moriarty, indeed they are. It becomes quite easy to establish himself – a little thievery from his parentage (in name only), earns him his start up capital. After that it is a simple systematic matter of setting up the network of underlings. Very few actually know who he is, of course, but they work for him in an elementary pyramid fashion.

To be honest he finds it too easy to master. Jim sees no challenge in becoming a drug lord. No finesse at all – the black market ways made almost all ideas of supply and demand go out the door. All he needs to worry about is making sure everything flows smoothly (child's play to him). Usually in the underworld that means hiring large goons and packing a gun.  
  
Jim does both.

* * *

 

Lying in his room, staring at the ceiling, Sherlock is coming down from his present high with a sickening feeling welling up inside him that has nothing to do with it being the last of his stash. He cannot help but lie back upon his bed in a state of complete lackluster, the early energy now robbed from him. His arm lies limp, scarred with bumps and pockmarks. A tiny bead of blood among all the old, from a fresh injection site provided by a needle now thrown on the floor.  
  
The stark ceiling above no longer looks so promising. It has turned into a void, just like his mind. Instead of replacing emptiness with activity he only does so briefly, crashing to deeper depths of inactivity. Sherlock's glazed blues bore into it unblinkingly.

So empty within himself – normally it feels as if his mind is a parade of activity, of screaming thoughts all vying for his attention from the top of one shifting float of thought after another. Now in the aftermath of drugged euphoria he feels sluggish in comparison.  
  
Not for the first time does he wonder why.

* * *

  
A week later finds the prior figure in better spirits. Sherlock Holmes is not your average brand of handsome - Not at nineteen, and unlikely to be so in his lifetime. In many ways he has still not grown into himself. Rapid growth spurts have left him stretched thin in a lanky way. The mop of black curls are an attractive feature, as are his capricious eyes.

Normally he dresses decently, but today he threw on a raggedy russet colored hoodie. It has a dirty look to it, which is why his mother hates it so. Sherlock dislikes it as well, but it is a necessity of disguise that he tolerates.

Where he is going, he needs to blend in. Wearing something too neatly pressed does make one stand out among the dregs of this world. Today a hoodie in a bland earthly tone, slightly baggy jeans and name brand knockoff sneakers is his outfit of choice.

Of course, his mother hates that entire ensemble too. So does his suit-wearing elder brother who rarely stops in to visit anymore. Honestly, they are puerile fools to him – his mother is a sharp wit, but readable about half the time and he can dupe her the other half. Meanwhile Mycroft plays too closely to the rules to be anything but transparent to Sherlock's eyes at all times. Sherlock has grown to dislike being around them, a 'phase' as his mother put it, that has now gone on for three years.

School has always been a joke... By now his mother is footing the bill for what she expects to be grand results. But Sherlock is not being challenged by their pathetic lessons, and the other students are equally sophomoric. Extracurricular activities seem so far beneath him that they look like a boyscout troop. Sometimes he feels he understands why Van Gogh looked at the world and only saw beauty or madness – no in between.

Truthfully, he finds the state of things deplorable, with no sign of forthcoming improvement. All the great thinkers dead and gone, leaving Sherlock in this empty modern world full of people walking around blind eyed, with analogous dreams to everyone else's and Xeroxed identities.

The disgruntled figure leaves his new home in central London and walks along the street, the hood thrown up around him to block out his identity in a world that rarely cares. He turns the corner, heading out of the posh neighborhood he lives in - Sherlock prowling the streets, seeking society's underbelly for another fix.

* * *

 

Finding the bad part of the city is not hard. The city does not maintain its upkeep, leaving many telltale signs – broken street lamps, dingy and far between red postal boxes, cluttering rubbish.. An explosion of graffiti with stylized letters spelling out various names of what he assumes are gangs or other teens, is an obvious clue that he is heading in the right direction.

 Finding the bad part of the city is not hard. The city does maintain its upkeep, leaving many telltale signs – broken street lamps, dingy and far between red postal boxes, cluttering rubbish.. An explosion of graffiti with stylized letters spelling out various names of what he assumes are gangs or other teens, is an obvious clue that he is heading in the right direction.

He catches sight of a promising figure – a strung out individual indeed. Between his fashion and gait Sherlock knows to begin the subtle little song and dance of the drug game. He pretends to hang around the area, finally sparking their discussion, and that is when Sherlock drops an offhanded comment about wanting to feel a little better.

The other boy mutters, “Yeah, sure would be nice if sum 'un had somethin', but ya gotta pay for happiness.”  
  
Sherlock begins to give the customary glinting eyes that says he completely fathoms the depth of such a remark. He nods slightly, signaling that he had money to burn. With a grin the other turns, and Sherlock follows after him.

The area might be all new, but this is a sharp eyed lad who keeps his head low and his minor charm going with a quip or two that sends the other to chortle softly. Basic ingratiation while his eyes sweep the building they enter – old and just beginning to show signs of turning decrepit.

“Jus' wait here.” Drawls the other boy, leaving him in a room just past the entranceway of the old building. At least 200 years, 300 if Sherlock is reading the architecture properly. The room is ill furnished with some old dusty relics from before the war that somehow lived through the blitz, or so they appear. A few archways veer off into other rooms. None quite so active as the one to his left, which his bright eyes fixate upon.

Through the door is the slender figure of a boy trying to act like he has grown into pants still two size too big. He even sits in a large high backed computer chair, elbows resting neatly on the edge of the desk before him, with laced fingers and a nefarious smile. Eyes mix with loathing the likes of which Sherlock has never seen, so cold, calculating, yet aloof all at once.

That stare alone is worth his fixation, but it is also the very visage of this other boy, Jim, who must be a touch younger then he, unless Jim merely looks more juvenile than he is. Proud forehead a sharp contrast against dark hair that Sherlock believes to be midnight black but in the poor lighting may be a deep brunette. A slender figure under that suit, which surprises him – the lad still looks small enough to have baby fat, but it seems to have already been outgrown.

Jim waves a hand casually to some half seen figure in the room, only his shoulder visible with his position. It does not take much guessing what happens next, though, as a powerful snap of a gun shot rings out. The echo is painful in Sherlock's ears – it was loud, which meant close.

Those evil predatorial eyes swivel to him, and suddenly Sherlock is the one between the cross hairs.  
  
“Hold!” Cries the suited lad in a commandeering bark. It strikes Sherlock as odd, such an antiquated word from someone his age, and that is indeed why he stops.  
  
Jim locks eyes with him, searching his gaze for a moment. One other hulking figure is visible, and holds something with a gleam. Sherlock remains still.

“What idjit let him in here?” Trills Jim in a Dublin accent.  
  
“I was,” Sherlock begins with a bare hint of dryness in that silken low voice, “Only looking for Charlie.” Silence sits after his words for a few moments as the two stare at each other.

“Not saying anything foolish?” Jim's tongue practically wraps around those last double vowels.

“What? That I didn't see anything?” Sherlock raises a brow and their kindred spirits pass a look of understanding – Sherlock recognizes Moriarty's prowess in his gaze, and likewise in seeing him the same genius is observed. No fear, no apprehension, and no temerity - only a simple meeting of their minds.  
  
“If you had, of course, there would be problems for you and yours,” Jim's accent has dropped, and Sherlock has noticed – he is forcing it out while there in London. That attempt to sound posh bemuses him when the true sound is so much more pleasant.

Jim gestures to the other men, not boys, standing nearby – they would cause plenty of problems the likes of which cover up can not hide. A nice example of the end result of early puberty coupled with some HGH usage to an already bulky body. Sherlock has to give it to him, Jim has found himself some brutal looking minions.  
  
“Get the man what he wants.” Jim orders and snaps one of the two hulks to attention. Still, his eyes are intrigued as he waves a hand for Sherlock to come closer.

Within minutes they are denouncing common folk together, dipping into philosophy, and even touching on the science of cocaine though neither intellectual has ever participated in the process, only the outcome. Sherlock's cocaine is soon brought, and when he pulls out money Jim waves a hand. “You will have to do better, take a second look.”

Sherlock did, and he saw the impressive amount of white powder. His curious gaze moved from the pile to Jim, “Why would you trust me to sell for you?”  
  
“Because you knew I wanted you to, without me having to tell you.” Jim murmurs, nodding slightly. There is more to it, of course, but that is the answer he provides. Unless of course one can glean something from the stare he gives Sherlock.

As of late Sherlock's mother has been controlling his cash flow. This is a perfect opportunity to circumvent her in not only maintaining his personal supply, but to gain extra pounds on the side that she will not know anything about.

He agrees.

* * *

  
Sherlock grabs the handlebars of his last birthday present – a bicycle – and heads out of his home, ignoring his mother's call. Pretending not to hear is much easier than stopping these days. In the basket lies his hoodie and a bookbag with the merchandise safely tucked away; His first set of sales.

Being a master of observation lets him pick his own little task force. He knows who needs money; the threadbare youths with holes boring into their sneakers – who wants to escape in that physical high; the wide, empty eyed creatures and hopelessly bored stares – and Sherlock even sees who he cannot trust with the task; the rats, willing to sell out anyone, for solutions to their problems.  
  
That first day he elects four individuals and wheels to each of their homes in turn. Sherlock is too intelligent to sell anything himself, and he also knows this will make it far easier and profitable.

All he has to do is keep on top of things.

* * *

 

  
“Will you sit a little and indulge, Sherlock?” Jim asks rather suddenly one day. From the start Jim has liked this brilliant teen just coming into his striking features. Now he has grown to look forward to Sherlock's pickups.

This is his fifth trip to attain merchandise and take it back for distribution, as Sherlock has named the various phases in his mind. It has been deplorably easy to move drugs within London, but he supposes the intellectual youth are better at it; That is how he sees not only himself, but now Jim too.

Though the other lad has not spoken much to Sherlock, he has picked up easily on his intellect. Words to his subordinates are classical. Jim's voice sounding composed in a way that strikes Sherlock, though he cannot place exactly why it affects him, when he is so rarely moved to petty emotion.

While not quite feeling obliged to the offer, Sherlock still agrees and they adjourn away from the room with the imposing desk to one of the smaller room branching further within the building no longer housing any real occupants.

The inner room has a touch more rustic charm, or as much as can be found amidst the grime. Though no true renovation has been afforded to it, this room is a tinge cleaner, with better accommodations. A few lumpy but comfortable pieces of furniture, some throw pillows, and it even goes so far as to have billowing curtains hiding the boarded up windows.

Sherlock takes up residence on a rather old but stylish looking chaise lounge, letting his lengthy legs stretch out. Jim walks behind him with a cool aloof pace, a small zippered black case in hand. He sits down gracefully in a chair of old velvet with a faded pattern of interlocking spirals that cups his body snuggly.

“Nice to have another proper genius around, isn't it?” Jim murmurs teasingly. He rests the case on his knee and unzips it, slipping out an already filled syringe and attached hypodermic needle. He gives an experimental tap to the side, eying the clear solution through the plastic. It gets set in his lap while a second hypodermic is given the same treatment.  
  
Jim begins to offer one of them, plunger side up, to Sherlock, until an idea comes to him. With a fresh glimmer in his eyes he pulls it back, and the young raven haired figure frowns to him with pursed lips.

That look dissipates as Jim sinks down off the chair, getting on his knees in front of the chaise lounge. He pulls out a scarf and flicks his wrist to brandish it. Jim prefers it to tourniquets, and is for once willing to share the silk with another. He reaches for Sherlock, who knowingly extends his forearm bottom up. With a faint smirk Jim ties the blood red scarf around Sherlock above the elbow, tugging on the end for assured tightness.

He starts to lightly slap at the other boy's forearm with his fingers to raise his veins. The two pass a look of bemusement and anticipation between them. Sherlock's fingers curl and uncurl as Jim watches his veins begin to pop, thinking how wonderful they look – a purpled sort of hue, not that common blue. How very royal of this ebony haired miscreant; To Jim, how very fitting.  
  
Those crafty digits leave their charge to take up the tubular medical device turned into a source of entertainment. Jim's eyes of deep amber and harsh contrasting alabaster rivet on that now powerful looking veiny forearm yielding so trustingly to him. He guides the needle to the thickest, most risen vein and slips the tip in with practiced expertise.

Jim looks up and feels a flush at Sherlock's unchanged expression. His impassivity to pain alluring to Jim, who has already found so much within this other figure to appreciate. He slowly pushes on the stopper, watching for any problem but none occurs. Sherlock groans softly at the sensation.

The relaxing expression as the cocaine solution enters Sherlock comes from knowing he has gained another fix. That step beyond anticipation, yet not quite at the high itself. It lasts but a second, does that bliss, but Jim watches it rise and set on his shapely face.

After untying the scarf Jim reties it on himself, using his teeth to help tighten what is a quick untying knot. His arm baring surprisingly few marks as he exposes it, for Jim rarely indulges himself with needles. Picking up the second hypodermic needle he easily finds a vein and inserts it with a minimal twitch. The plunger getting a swift yet steady press, and the fire slowly roars its way into his body.  
  
Jim gives a single tug on one end of the scarf and it comes free. He throws it onto the open case, where both used needles already sit, and sets it aside on the nearest flat surface. Jim takes in a breath at the immediate quickening of his heart beat. He sits up straighter and grins to Sherlock who gives a similar jovial expression.

For a second they only sit, staring with an eagerness at each other. Sherlock opens his mouth to say something, and Jim leans in with a firm yet sudden kiss. He has to nearly climb on the lounging figure to do so, hands resting on the raised back on either side of his companion.

Sherlock gasps in surprise, having not realized Jim's attraction to him. The observant hawk missing something as blatant as the other's feelings, but the longer Jim kisses him the less Sherlock minds his mental mistake.

Pent up adoration flows through Jim's eager lips, which meld to Sherlock's already opening mouth. Jim's unabashed tongue trying to claim every inch of him as if robbing some sacred temple.

Kissing Sherlock does not feel like kissing others. The often stoic-looking taller boy proving his passion is there, it just needs the proper spark. Jim is set to groaning as there is no crude carnality, just warmth and brazen desire. An underlying skill that is not only unteachable, but oft blotted out with experience.

Slim pink crescents greet Jim as he pulls away from the slightly flushed youth who is usually so pale. Fire roars through every vein already pumping with the effects of the narcotic. His body shifts, having practically sat in Sherlock's lap to get their kiss started, to rest on the other fully.

They separate for air, staying within inches of each other. Quickly Jim's hands begin to tease their way underneath the hoodie, that same one Sherlock always wears. So brown and boring, so unlike the wonderful creature within it.

“Feck..” Murmurs Jim breathlessly as Sherlock tilts his head to the side of Jim's face and snaps his lips around one of Jim's earlobes in return. The pads of his fingers swipe faster over alabaster skin, tugging the offending earth-toned garment farther up.

“We should.” Sherlock whispers in his ear with obvious amusement in this less inhibited state. His hands lift to rub at Jim's hip bones, mouth returning to suckle the appendage.

Jim jerks his head away, hissing with pleasure as his lobe is wrenched painfully out of Sherlock's mouth. Tightly he grips the hoodie and tugs it up, throwing it to the floor. Then Jim yanks his own jacket off, trying to hurry them out of their clothes. The heretofore steady breathing turned to panting as he rapidly comes undone from that collected Westwood state.  
  
With Jim's attentive help and Sherlock's willingness to sit up soon the taller figure is divested of everything but socks. Meanwhile Jim's speedy undressing gets his shirt halfway unbuttoned and his trousers down but not off. Both look at the other with wanton desire from wide-blown eyes.

The slender man shouts for someone to bring lube, and neither he nor Sherlock seems to care about their varying states of undress when one of Jim's grunts enters with a strawberry flavored tube and a condom. After snatching them away Jim barks at them to leave, not taking his wide eyes off Sherlock.

Jim chuckles as his subservient goon walks away, backing up on the chaise lounge between Sherlock's legs. He grabs the older teen by the ankles and pulls him backward, leaving Sherlock flat in a supine position. Sherlock decides to help by lifting one foot and placing it against the elevated back of the lounge, and the other falls to the floor. The distance exposes his pale expanse more easily to eager Jim, as well as Sherlock's jutting erection.

Neither wants to wait to unleash the torrent of energy they feel on the other. Jim's boxers fall below his knees. He barely stretches Sherlock, but he can tell by the way the pale figure gyrates into the motion that he has experience. Anticipation coils within Jim's stomach like a hard warm knot.

Jim fists himself a few times before he rolls the condom on himself, coating it with the lube as hurriedly as possible. Since Sherlock has arrived he has wanted to do this. The depth of that blue crystalline gaze still floors Jim, who falls into it while staring down at Sherlock, as he finally thrusts inside his dark haired rogue.

A sharp cry from Sherlock is bitten down, stifled into a groan that trembles within his throat. Perhaps he never consciously realized until now, but Jim is not only the first likewise person he has met, but quite an attractive one. So different from himself – tan where Sherlock is pale, short where Sherlock is tall, squared lines where Sherlock's curve, and yet so very alike in the ways that really matter.

The room is now a den of sweat, musky sex, and euphoria. When the high dies down there is no telling what one will say to the other, but in this moment, all they care about is pleasure... Consuming themselves fully in it. Basking in that joyous intoxication to the utmost of their abilities.  
  
Under their joint high both their eyes have dilated, revealing so little of those gorgeous colors. Only two sets of black empty pupils. They rivet to each other as if trying to devour their companion completely.


End file.
